Here’s a snippet from my black comedy, Assume the Postion, coming soon to all the ususal outlets. Stay tuned.
We buried Rick Johnson—tried to—just after ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. It was raining, the first rain Southern California had seen in two weeks. The grass was squishy underfoot as I trailed Rick’s relatives up the soggy San Bernardino hillside toward the grave. I slipped once and went down on my hands and knees. My new gray suit was smeared with mud, the shine was gone from my wingtips. Nobody offered to help me up. I got up and straightened my tie with a muddy hand, making things worse.
The group around the grave was small, less than a dozen. Rick’s lacquered ivory casket glowed like a magic mushroom under a white canvas awning. The box didn’t look long enough to accommodate his six-foot-seven inch frame.
He had lain undiscovered in his New Orleans apartment for two weeks. Poor bastard. Heart attack at thirty-two. Rotting away in the heat—Jesus, I didn’t even want to go there.